Peeta's Perspective: The Hunger Games
by imwritinganovel
Summary: Suzanne Collins' novel 'The Hunger Games', imagined from Peeta Mellark's perspective. New chapter will be added weekly!
1. Chapter 1

**Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book The Hunger Games, from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her, I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events.**

Chapter 1

I open my eyes to a grey morning. A chill sits over the room but I abandon the warmth of the threadbare blanket and get dressed for the day. It's quiet up here, which allows me to hear movement downstairs in the bakery. It's only dawn but getting up with the sun is considered late in this household.

As I pull my shoes on, I glance out the window. It's difficult to tell what kind of day it will be. Although it's grey now, the sun could end up shining, or it could be smothered by clouds. At the same time, the future is also very certain. Several families will mourn the loss of a child tonight. The question is just whose.

In some respects, Reaping Day is like any other. We rise early and get on with our daily tasks at the bakery. My father gives us instructions as to what we need to prepare for the day. Barric and Kane knead the dough. The oven is turned on, the display shelves dusted. I feed the pigs, sweep the floor. My mother's harsh voice echoes around the walls. As usual. We fall into our everyday routine, but in other ways Reaping Day could not weigh heavier on our shoulders. We treat this morning like any other, but reminders are everywhere. From the front window of the shop, I can see that the streets are deserted. Usually, the miners would be making their way to work right now. Each year, orders for bread are also dismally low on this day — people don't tend to leave their houses before two, when the reaping takes place, and appetites are understandably low afterwards.

The tension in District 12 is palpable. Even though my family and I belong to the better-off part of the district, no one is really omitted from the Hunger Games. Not the children — whose names are entered for the reaping — or the families, who fear losing one of their own every year. The only ones who have nothing to lose are the ones who have already lost it all. The ones whose hearts have hardened over time. Or, I suppose, the ones whose hearts were never tender to begin with. I refrain from thinking about my mother as the latter case. Instead, my thoughts wander to those whose names have been entered for reaping. My name is in there five times. Others have probably been forced to enter more than ten times that much. Disgust fills me as I think about it. May the odds be ever in your favour, the Capitol tells us. Well, how can they be, when there are just five slips with my name, whereas the name Katniss Everdeen will be entered twenty times?

The casual appearance of Katniss' name in my thoughts startles me. Apart from our brief interaction years ago, I have hardly come into contact with her. Countless times, I've been tempted to sit next to her in the cafeteria, or to invite her to work together in class, but I can't quite work up the nerve to talk to her for fear of ending up like my father did with her mother. Unnoticed. Forgotten. My eyes fall on the cakes and cookies on display; they bring Katniss's little sister, Primrose, to mind. She always stops to admire them. More than once, I've wished I could give them all to her, just to see Prim's dazzling smile, which in turn brings a light to Katniss's eyes.

A knock at the back door causes my thoughts to scatter. I lean the broom against the counter and open the door to see a familiar face. Gale Hawthorne stands there, a squirrel at his belt. He must have been up before the baker to have gotten here so early.

"Good morning, Gale," I say. He looks surprised that I know his name. He opens his mouth, but I interrupt. "I'll get my father."

I fetch the baker. As they talk in hushed voices, so my mother won't overhear, I finish my chores. Of course I know Gale Hawthorne, partly because of his reputation at school, and mostly because of the favour Katniss holds for him. There is some resentment in my heart, but I try not to go looking for it. After all, he has helped Katniss and her family stay alive. She would have survived through her own skill, but the woods must be safer with someone to watch out for you.

My father trades a freshly-baked loaf for the squirrel. With a quiet 'good luck', he closes the door. He holds up the squirrel. "Clean shot," he says.

"Not through the eye, though," I say with a small smile. He returns it as we both think of Katniss, and the first time I admitted my feelings for her to my father.

"Back to work," he replies, and I return to my station.

The streets mostly remain bare throughout the morning. A few customers stop by. Some only come to say good luck. By midday, my brothers and I are dismissed from our duties. Of my two older brothers, Kane is still eligible for reaping. But it's mandatory for everyone to attend, so we all set about getting ready for slaughter. I see my mother weave a silken ribbon through her hair, the only strand of silk we own. I put on my best shirt and straighten the collar, shine my shoes and comb my hair.

Time to head for the square.

Cameras surround the place when we get there. As per tradition, all the buildings have been decked with glaring celebratory banners. Onstage, in similarly vivid colours, stands Effie Trinket, exchanging words with the mayor. The stage has been set up in front of the Justice Building, which peers down at us. At all the justice that is about to be had in the next hour. Children file into the designated space, lining up according to age. I join the sixteen-year-old boys along with Kane. Familiar faces surround me. I glance at each one and wonder how many times their names are entered today.

The reaping begins with the mayor's speech at two o'clock sharp. My eyes travel to Katniss, her little sister. Their mother stands at the fringes of the square. Even from this distance, I can see the anxiety in her eyes. My own family is somewhere in the crowd. Are they worried for me? Or is it some comfort that the odds truly are in my favour?

Mayor Undersee begins listing previous winners from District 12. The list consists of only two names. One of those names is up there at the moment, intoxicated and incomprehensible. Despite Haymitch Abernathy's antics, a grim air smothers us all. It tightens its grip as the mayor draws attention away from Haymitch and lets Effie Trinket take the stage. Effie bounces to the podium, chirps the Hunger Games catchphrase — "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!" — and makes her way to one of the two large glass bowls occupying the stage. The girls' names.

I exhale deeply, hoping for Katniss's safety. Let it not be her. She has suffered so much already. Guilt stabs at me — by wishing her safety, I wish another's doom — but I keep wishing, keep hoping.

And it works. Because Effie Trinket pulls out a slip, walks back to the podium and reads, "Primrose Everdeen!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book** ** _The Hunger Games,_** **from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her, I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events.**

Chapter 2

For a moment, silence blankets us. Then I hear sighs of relief, some shuffling about and mutterings of disapproval and pity. My gaze slowly travels to Katniss. She stands frozen, as if shellshocked. A distant sense of dread creeps up my neck, almost as if I know what will happen next.

Prim, who was lost amongst the other twelve-year-olds at the back, now emerges looking pale and terrified. A pain shoots through me as I watch her shakily make her way to the stage, where Effie Trinket stands with a ghastly grin on her face. Prim's eyes are wide and dart frantically about, as if looking for an escape. She is nearly at the steps when a scream rips the silence apart.

"Prim!"

The crowd separates for Katniss. "Prim!"

I watch with fresh horror as Katniss scrambles to the stage and pushes Prim behind her.

"I volunteer!" she gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The words hang in the air and I almost hope they will dissipate unheard. She is met with renewed silence and some mutterings amongst those onstage. Those around me shift, unsure. Uncomfortable. The official procedure for volunteering has long been forgotten. I stand rooted as Katniss stares up at them with wild eyes, holding Prim back with one arm.

Of course she would volunteer. It should have been obvious the moment Prim's name was uttered. Katniss would undoubtedly die for her sister, and that is basically what she has signed up to do now. The thought of her fighting twenty three others for her life sickens me, makes my gut wrench, and I feel a futile need to go up there, to take her place, to protect her in any meager way I can. Even if she doesn't know who I am, or how I feel, I just wish I could do _something._

After some hesitance, Effie Trinket has turned back to us. "Lovely! But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner..." She continues, but I can't bear to listen. I only wonder how she can be stuck on technicalities at the doorstep of mass murder.

The mayor responds, his words probably echoing everyone else's thoughts. "What does it matter?" His gaze is fixed on Katniss. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

His last words are drowned by Prim's panicked screams. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

From the corner of my eye, I see Gale making his way towards them. His expression is grim but as he passes me, I can see his eyes blaze with fury.

"Prim, let go!" The horror has left Katniss' expression to be replaced by a stony indifference. But a trace of pain lingers. She grips Prim's arms, which are encircled around her. "Let go!" she repeats fiercely.

Gale lifts Prim off her sister, easily resisting her struggles. He murmurs a few words to Katniss before turning back, and then Katniss is climbing the steps and walking onstage.

"Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the Games!" Effie Trinket cries. "What's your name?"

There is only a second's pause. "Katniss Everdeen." A part of me marvels at her steady voice, her steely gaze.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" I feel the sudden urge to throttle Effie Trinket's neck. "Come on everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

Nobody responds. No one even lifts a finger. As I watch Katniss watching us, a sudden thought seems to take over us and we raise our left hands to bid Katniss farewell. As I touch my three middle fingers to my lips and hold them out, I think of how insufficient, yet how appropriate this gesture is. _It means saying goodbye to someone you love,_ my father had told me once.

My eyes are trained on Katniss' face. When will I see her again? On screens televising the Games? At the station, when the train transports the victor home? Surely I will think of her every moment of the Games. I will see her in the shafts of sunlight that filter through the branches of the apple tree in the bakery's backyard.

Right now, her hardened expression appears on the verge of cracking as she scrutinizes our gesture of farewell. Then, Haymitch Abernathy rises and stumbles centre stage. "Look at her," he says unnecessarily, as all eyes are already on her. "Look at this one!" He drapes an arm around her shoulders, too drunk to even notice her surprise and discomfort.

"I like her!" he continues. "Lots of..." He peers around the crowd, blindingly dazedly. "...spunk!" he decides. "More than you!" he yells at us, taking a few steps forward, then turning to a camera. "More than you!"

Every camera, every face has turned to watch him by now. My eyes flit back to Katniss just in time to see her harden her expression once more. She squares her shoulders, folds her arms behind her back and looks straight ahead. I can't help but admire her strength, her endurance.

It brings me back to the time she lost her father. For a while they seemed to be managing all right, but over time, it was obvious that she and her family were edging towards starvation. Everyday at school, I saw her progressively weaken, cheekbones jutting out and dark circles prominent under her eyes. I watched the skies with growing anxiety, knowing that with winter's leave and spring's appearance, Katniss would be able to find sustenance in the woods. I kept an eye on the freshly baked loaves, hoping my mother's sharp gaze would fail at one point or another. But she caught me trying to smuggle a loaf to school and banned me from entering the bakery for weeks, except to dust and sweep under her supervision.

The thud as Haymitch falls offstage brings me back to the present. As a stretcher borne by two Peacekeepers is brought to carry him away, I feel a twinge of irritation. I don't understand why at first, until I remember that this drunken man is going to be Katniss' lifeline in the arena. My chest feels more hollow and I almost wish I could go up there, except that would do no good at all.

Effie Trinket totters to the front of the stage again. "What an exciting day!" she squeaks. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!"

Apparently eager to get this over with, she hurries to the other glass ball and plunges her hand in. Picking a slip from near the top, she hurries back to the podium, unfolds the piece of paper and reads the name.

I don't even register that the name is mine until I see all eyes trained on me. Even Katniss'.

At first, a strange amusement hits me as I see the slight panic in her eyes. I'm the other District 12 tribute. The odds are neither in hers, nor in my favor today.

All amusement dissipates as I make my way to the stage. The fates must be playing some cruel joke on me. Moments before, I was wishing I could go to Katniss to comfort her somehow. Now I take those very steps to stand beside her as an enemy, an obstacle between her and life. I realize my features are frozen in an expression of shock and try to recompose them, as Katniss did. But the thought of fighting her to the death - of never seeing home again, of losing some part of myself to the tyranny of the Capitol - is taking over my mind. All this was never impossible, but it was deeply improbable. Yes, the fates must be playing some cruel joke.

As I slowly climb the stairs and take my place onstage, reality sets in. I know I won't last long in the arena. I don't foster any hope of returning to District 12.

"Any volunteers?" Effie Trinket asks, to be greeted by silence. Automatically, I look at the spot I had been occupying seconds ago. My brother stands a few meters in front of it, eyes cast downwards.

It's just as well. A grim acceptance has already begun to numb me. By the time the mayor begins reading the Treaty of Treason, my decision is already made. I will do everything in my power to make sure Katniss returns home. It's not saying much - what can a baker's son do against trained killers? - but surely twenty two enemies and an ally is better than twenty three enemies.

The mayor, pity filling his eyes, gestures for Katniss and I to shake hands. I take her right hand in mine and look her in the eye for the first time. Her expression is unreadable. I squeeze her hand slightly, wishing it to convey everything - the pain I feel for her, my regret that I couldn't help her in those dark months, and my promise - whilst knowing that it possibly can't.

As the anthem blares from speakers around the square, our fleeting connection is broken. I turn to face the people of District 12 for the last time.

With each note of the anthem, my resolve grows stronger. No, the odds have not been in my favor, but I will overcome them. Katniss will be the victor of the 74th Hunger Games.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book The Hunger Games, from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her, I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events.**

Chapter 3

The room is filled with furniture. A glossy table, chairs of various sizes, a thick carpet. As if to provide us with the deepest comforts before we die. It seems utterly out of place in the dilapidated Justice Building. The excess of rich material is almost stifling; I wonder how many mouths they could feed just by selling the curtains. The only window in the room overlooks the square, which is now empty. Usually, it would be bustling with passersby, vendors and haggling shoppers. But today people have shut themselves at home, probably revelling in the relief that they are safe for now. As safe as you can get in a place haunted by lack and starvation.

I can feel my father's gaze on my back. Something holds me to my spot by the window. A clawing in my gut won't let me say goodbye to my parents. Yet each breath marks another moment passed, and I don't have many of those left. So I push back all thoughts and turn from the window.

My father looks too uncomfortable for someone sitting on a velvet sofa. My mother sits across from him on a plush armchair, almost sinking into the fabric.

My father looks up at me. "Sit down, son."

I take a seat beside him. I wait for either of them to say something, but both seem lost for words. I glance at my mother. Her lips are pressed together in indignation. Her expression is a mix of self-pity and pain but her eyes are dry. I would feel bad for her if it weren't me going into an arena to fight to the death. One look at her and the words escape my mouth.

"Who died?"

She looks deeply offended and gasps, "Peeta!"

"I mean, I know my chances are slim but I'm still here… for now." A hollow chuckle crawls up my throat. "Maybe you could celebrate my funeral after I'm actually gone."

My father doesn't react. My mother looks towards the window. She appears disgusted, whether at my lightheartedness or my lack of determination to return, I'm unsure.

"Son…" My father clears his throat. "Try your best."

At these words, I finally meet his eyes. And all the panic and pain I haven't felt in their true intensities now surge through me as I realise I'm looking at my father, my only true family, for the last time. I suddenly feel like I'm four again, awoken by nightmares but comforted by the knowledge of his steady presence. His blue eyes — my eyes — glisten with unshed tears but his voice is steady.

"You never know," he mutters. "Don't give up hope."

I almost wish, foolishly, that I could stay. That I could go home again. Not for him, but for me. He still has a family, a life ahead. What will I do without them? Without the steadfastness the bakery has brought to my life? My throat has closed up so I just nod, accepting his words. He can't be wholly sincere, anyway. He knows I don't stand a chance, especially with Katniss involved.

"Who knows," my mother sniffs, still looking at the window. "Maybe District 12 will finally have a winner!" Before I have the chance to scoff away her misplaced belief in me, she continues. "She's a survivor, that one."

I almost laugh. For once, I actually agree with my mother. My father, however, still stares at me. "I believe in you, Peeta," he says quietly, his voice almost severe. He won't explicitly contradict my mother, but this is the closest he can get.

"Okay," I reply. Maybe it will give him some peace of mind.

The words seem to run out between us then. We sit in silence until a Peacekeeper opens the door. My mother rises and I get up to accept her brief hug.

"Goodbye, Mother."

I watch her leave. She doesn't look back. I think I hear a small sniff, but it's too late to tell. My father stands as well. Before I can say anything, a long silver chain falls from his scarred hands into mine.

"Your token," he says. At the end of the chain hangs a tiny corked vial, inside which are a few pressed lavender flowers. "From the first loaf you baked."

"You…?" The words, so free before, now move haltingly. "I… I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say. I'm just happy I'm not his only family. He will still have loved ones left after I'm gone.

The Peacekeeper coughs and I can feel the seconds slipping by.

"Take care of yourselves," I say quickly. His arms encircle me, as they used to after nightmares or scraped knees, and he pats my back. I can feel a bag of cookies in his inside pocket, a bag he got into the habit of carrying after raising children who often needed distractions from cuts and burns. "And take care of them, too," I add.

I don't have to explain whom I mean. I have no doubt that Gale will never let Katniss' family starve, but some extra rations never hurt in District 12.

He pulls back. "I will, son."

I turn to the window again as the door shuts behind him. An ornate clock in the corner tells me I have about forty minutes left. I don't expect anyone else to visit, except…

The door opens just as I think of my brothers, except only Barric enters.

"Where's Kane?"

Barric doesn't sit but joins me by the window, looking grim. "He said he couldn't…" He trails off. "Maybe he should've—"

"Katniss was a tough act to follow." I half-smile. "Tell him I don't blame him, okay?"

He nods and we exchange goodbyes. He seems more confident than my mother, yet not as sure as my father. Although his furrowed brows reveal perturbation, we both know he would do the same thing in Kane's position. And I probably would as well.

I stay by the window after my brother leaves. At some point, the tears spill over and I let them flow. I can't help but think of the bakery, which I unknowingly saw for the last time this afternoon. I remember the threadbare blanket covering my bed, the rickety stairs leading to the shop front. My icing-stained apron. The stiff-bristled broom I used — that they will keep using — to sweep the floor. The gigantic oven on the wall that looked like a gaping mouth. I remember them as if they were more family members, then one by one, wipe them from my mind. I won't think of them again. I won't think of what I'm leaving behind. When my hour is over I feel like a hollow version of myself, with no memories or tethers. I push the chain deep into my pocket and follow a Peacekeeper out of the room.

He ushers me into a car. Katniss appears moments later, looking indifferent. Unforgiving. We ride to the station in silence and I am awed by the speed at which we move. It almost serves as a distraction, but the now meaningless tears continue to spill over. Capitol reporters greet us at the station, their gigantic cameras almost cartoonish in size. They wordlessly take our pictures and record us. Flashes from their cameras surround us like snapping teeth until we're led onto the train. A few more pictures, more flashes, and then the train doors close.

If the car was fast, the train flies in comparison. An attendant leads me to a bedroom, which is to be mine until we reach the Capitol. He points out the bathroom, the chest of drawers full of clothes and a dressing area. I can do and have anything I want, he tells me before leaving. I cross the room to the windows — these are much larger than the one in the Justice Building. In fact, everything is bigger and brighter in this room. The whole train stinks of opulence.

I sit on the bed, my thoughts static for the moment. I wonder what to do next. The tears have finally stopped, I note with some relief. There is nothing left but to look ahead. My promise to Katniss stands: I will protect her as far as I can. And the next few days will give me a chance to prepare for that. I kick off my shoes, suddenly feeling warm. My clothes feel too tight and I rip off my shirt, flinging it away. I head to the bathroom and the rest of my clothes follow the shirt. After a cold shower I gather the old clothes, fold them and stuff them into a corner of the drawers. They belong to the past now.

Even after all this, the hour isn't up. If the minutes have decided to linger as long as possible, I suppose I should make each of them count whilst I can. I exit my living chambers and begin to walk. We're being transported in one of the Capitol's finest trains: no expenses are spared when it comes to the Games. The whole thing is aerodynamically shaped like a bullet and hardly makes a noise, which means I can only go straight, and walk in near complete silence. I cross corridor after corridor, closed door after closed door — how long is this train? At one point, Haymitch Abernathy emerges from one of the rooms, looking dazed. Even though the train's movement is minimal, he sways back and forth as if he's been dumped on a rickety coal train.

He squints at me. "Where…?" He reeks of spirits. He must have been brought to the train straight after his fall from the stage.

"Um… We're going to the Capitol. The 74th Hunger Games…?" He doesn't seem to hear. Muttering something about a nap, he wanders off into the maze of corridors.

I keep going, trying not to think about how our fates basically rest in a drunkard's hands. After a while, I begin to feel as if I'm stuck in a metal coffin. The swinging walls seem to be closing in on me, about to crush the breath out of my lungs, until the narrow corridor finally opens up to a large dining hall.

Well, I have to be here soon anyway. I take a seat at the table, which is covered with an assortment of expensive china. The train moves too fast to take in any scenery outside, so it's impossible to tell where we are. I strain my eyes, catching glimpses of fields, patches of trees.

Soon, footsteps echo along the corridor and Effie Trinket appears with Katniss. Effie totters over to the table.

"Where's Haymitch?" Her eyes travel around the room in satisfaction.

Who knows. "Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take nap." Or something like it.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," Effie replies.

She sits down across the table, whilst Katniss takes the seat beside me. Katniss has only thrown one glance in my direction, and I notice a wariness in the way she moves around me. She's probably trying to figure out my survival strategy. If I were playing to win, every move of my adversaries' would seem like a trick. Well, it's probably better that she doesn't know my true intentions. She would never accept my help.

We eat the meal in near silence, mostly because Katniss and I hardly look up from our plates. Even though I have never really gone hungry at home, years of eating stale baked goods seem to have created a void inside me, an insatiable need for fresh food. Each course begins with fully loaded platters and ends with totally empty ones.

"Pace yourselves," Effie tells us repeatedly, naming more and more dishes to come. Some of these ingredients I have never even seen before, let alone tasted. Neither of us pays her any heed.

"At least you two have decent manners," Effie sniffs at one point. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

After this, Katniss abandons her knife and fork. I just admire her fire, but also hope it doesn't end up engulfing her in the end.

By the time the final course is whisked away, I'm feeling nauseated. I take deep breaths. It's difficult to stomach such elaborate food, and in such large quantities, after a lifetime of bread. But it won't do to get sick before the Games truly begin.

After dinner, Effie takes us to watch the rest of today's reapings. We watch the other tributes get chosen. Some volunteer themselves up. Disbelief rips through me as I see a crippled boy and a twelve-year-old — just like Prim — go onstage, compared to the trained and murderous tributes of Districts 1, 2 and 4. I watch the District 12 reaping again, feeling stabs of horror even though I've already lived through it once. Katniss and I shake hands onscreen and the anthem plays as it did the moment I made my decision.

Effie Trinket looks displeased as the programme draws to a close. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behaviour."

I laugh. More like learning how to stay sober. "He's drunk. He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss says. For the first time, a jeering smile twists her lips. My smile widens in response to hers.

"Yes. How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!" she spits.

Haymitch appears at the door. If there's one thing that man's got, it's great timing.

"I miss supper?" he says, his words melting together. Before any of us can reply, he throws up and collapses in the puddle of regurgitated alcohol. The stench makes my stomach lurch and I clamp a hand across my nose.

"So laugh away!" Effie snaps. She edges around the pool of vomit and leaves.

For a second, I sit in the revelation of Effie's speech. She has pointed out the truth I'd been trying to avoid. From the moment Katniss became tribute, she became dependent on Haymitch, whether she likes it or not. No matter how many allies she has, Haymitch is the most important link to her survival. But he's in no shape to stand up, let alone guide anyone through the Games. And it won't do to ignore that any longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book _The Hunger Games,_ from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her. I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events. I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 4

Haymitch does not seem aware of his own faculties — or lack thereof — at the moment. He attempts to stand and slips straight back into the vomit. I glance at Katniss and am surprised to see her looking at me, too. I suppose we've both reached the same conclusion: we have to help Haymitch so he can help us. We wordlessly rise and pull our mentor up by the arms. The stench of vomit hangs heavy, making my stomach churn. Haymitch, swaying dangerously, turns his head from me to Katniss.

"I tripped?" His nose wrinkles. "Smells bad."

Not really helping himself, he smears more vomit onto his face. Disgust bubbles inside me and I'm tempted to let go of him. He's caked in vomit and obviously hasn't bathed in a while. His ill-fitting clothes are grubby and marred with stains. But I notice he's trembling, which I suspect has nothing to do with the train's movement or even his drunken state. When is the last time he had a proper meal? A good night's sleep?

It's not hard to imagine that rest and peace of mind are rare companions after surviving the Hunger Games. Haymitch exists in perpetual drunkenness, has let himself decay over time. He alone inhabits the Village — the only other victor died years ago. He doesn't have any family, any friends, or anyone at all to live for. And year after year, he's forced to attend the Games to watch more children die. The disgust crumbles as I think of Haymitch in this train every year, towed to and from the Capitol.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say, even though he's not in his senses, "clean you up a bit."

Katniss and I return him to his living quarters, with him leaning heavily on our shoulders. We take him straight to the bathroom, set him in the bathtub and turn the shower on.

I glance at Katniss. Disgust is woven into her features and her skin is tinged green. "It's okay. I'll take it from here."

She looks obviously relieved, yet hesitant. "All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

"No." The Capitol has done enough. "I don't want them."

As Katniss leaves, I get to work. Stripping Haymitch down to his undergarments, I press random buttons until hot water fires down in full force. After all the vomit has drained from the tub and the air is thick with rose-scented vapour, I wrap a towel around Haymitch's shoulders and half-carry him back to the bedroom. At this point, his previously mumbled protests are beginning to turn to rowdy shouts, so I have to admit defeat and call for help. At the press of a button, a Capitol attendant appears at the door. Together, she and I force Haymitch into a pair of pyjamas. She brings him a bowl of broth which he nearly knocks to the floor. Maybe we should have put it in a flask.

Getting Haymitch to eat is tricky. Eventually, fatigue overtakes him and he passes out. As I pull the blanket over him and close the door behind me, I realise the sky has darkened. I make my way along well-lit corridors but once in my room, I don't turn the lights on. The train speeds by silhouettes of buildings. Of homes. People live within those shadowy silhouettes, going about their everyday lives as I once did. As I was doing just yesterday. I lie back on the bed, not bothered about nightclothes or blankets. How different people's everyday lives are, compared to each other. I used to rise at dawn, spend the day at the bakery, then school, then back again, almost always surrounded by people. That was the pattern of my life for months on end. When did Haymitch last have such a routine to his days? When was his last proper conversation with someone? I think of his unlaced boots, mismatched socks. The way his shirt was buttoned all wrong, and the scratches on his palm from sleeping with a knife wedged in his hands.

This is what the Games do to you. I close my eyes, wishing for sleep to come and trying not to let my thoughts stray home.

The first noise to interrupt the train's steady hum in the morning is Effie Trinket's voice.

"Up, up up!" Three sharp taps on the door. "It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

Her footsteps recede. She can't know that I've already been up for a while. Sleep evaded me for most of last night. I tossed and turned, brewing in futility until daybreak. According to habit, I got up at dawn and washed and dressed for the day. Although exhaustion sits heavy on my shoulders, maybe I was lucky I didn't sleep. I didn't want to dream of home. At some point during the night, I got up and pulled my token from the pile of my old clothes and now clutch it tightly. I simultaneously want to hold onto it forever and to throw it into the farthest corner of oblivion.

Moments after Effie's wake up call, I head to the dining area. Buttery sunlight bathes the whole room, but it has no real warmth to it. Like yesterday afternoon the room is empty, but the table is laid. Four sets of crisp white napkins, glistening cutlery and upturned cups and crystal glasses have been placed at each corner. In the centre stand baskets of fruit and bread, pitchers of juices in startling colours. A small bowl for butter. Little jars of jam.

An attendant stands at each end of the room. Bidding them a quiet good morning, I take my seat. Almost immediately, one of them lays a plate laden with food in front of me. Another turns the glasses and cups the right way around and adjusts the pitchers so the handles are facing me.

"Orange, pineapple, honeydew, cranberry," he mutters, indicating each one. I am about to reach for the orange juice when a steaming chocolate brown drink catches my eye.

"What's that?"

The attendant follows my gaze. "That's hot chocolate, sir."

I nod. I've never heard of it, but if it tastes as good as it sounds, I can't pass it up. I've just poured myself a cup when Effie Trinket enters, looking fluorescent as ever.

"Good morning!" she says brightly. "And how are we today?"

"Fine, thank you," I answer automatically as she bustles to the table, peering over the selection of food. Her face falls.

"No coffee?" She beckons to one of the attendants. "Excuse me, where's the coffee? I _need_ some coffee!"

The attendant scuttles through one of the doors. Looking appeased, Effie Trinket takes a seat. She has just opened her mouth to say something when—

"You sure you can handle coffee, sweetheart?" Haymitch appears at the door, a smirk on his face. A flask dangles from one hand; my heart sinks slightly. I know I can't exactly shake the drunkenness from him, but all my efforts will be wasted if each morning renews his intoxicated state. It can't be easy to endure a reality that's so filled with horrors — especially one supplemented by his own nightmares — but he doesn't even seem to be trying.

Effie stiffens. "Are you talking to me?"

"Well, you don't see the boy hollering for it." Haymitch strolls in and sits down beside a now ruffled-looking Effie. "All I'm saying is, you already have a spring in your step. Wouldn't want you to shoot through the roof now, would we? If you did, who would wake us all up for our _big, big, big, big_ days?" He laughs with his head thrown back. The sound is grating and I wish he would stop.

Effie glances from his face to mine in disbelief. I just take a long sip of hot chocolate, resisting the urge to clamp my hands over my ears. Two plates have been laid in front of them both. Haymitch looks his over with disinterest, but eagerly pours a glass of cranberry juice. I almost raise my eyebrows in surprise until he empties some of his flask into the glass as well. Of course.

Effie looks seriously miffed. I'm hoping Haymitch will just focus on breakfast now, but he seems oddly jovial this morning. "Big, big, day," he chuckles under his breath. Then he brightens. "Although, if you _did_ shoot off like a rocket, you'd probably get to the Capitol before we do!" He takes a deep gulp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't you think so, boy?"

They both turn their gazes on me. My face reddens as I mutter something non-committal, and I grab a roll so I don't have to look at either of them. Both seem oblivious to the fact that we're heading to a place where mass murder is passed off as amusement. Haymitch just sniggers. Fortunately, the other attendant has reappeared by now, clutching a coffee pot. Before he can set it on the table Effie scrambles to take it herself, apparently eager to put as much space between her and Haymitch as possible. She slams the pot onto the table and heads to the door, cup brimming and expression satisfied.

At this point, Katniss comes in, looking questioningly at the scene before her.

"Sit down, sit down!" Haymitch ushers her over. His eagerness gives me some hope; maybe he will try to help after all. But watching him steadily empty his flask, I don't know what to believe.

The attendants serve Katniss. The one who pointed out the juices to me puts a cup of hot chocolate by her plate. She looks at it with curiosity.

"They call it hot chocolate. It's good," I reassure her.

We both start on our plates of food. As we eat, I decide to work through the obstacles one step at a time. Haymitch looks more alert this morning. Maybe, somehow, he will improve as the Games advance. Maybe he will pull through.

I eat as much as I comfortably can, determined to avoid yesterday's nausea. By the time Katniss finishes, I've returned to my bread roll and cup of hot chocolate. Meanwhile, Katniss scrutinises Haymitch, who must be on his third or fourth glass of juice by now.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," she says suddenly.

He looks up with a glint in his eye and for a moment, I foolishly believe he's going to help. "Here's some advice. Stay alive!" He dissolves into laughter.

Katniss and I share a frustrated glance.

"That's very funny," I snap, unable to help myself. I've given myself too much hope, and now his mild drunkenness is a huge disappointment. He smirks at me with his glass dangling between his fingers and I before I fully register what I'm doing, I've knocked it to the floor.

The sound of breaking crystal leaves silence behind. "Only not to us," I add, to break that, too.

I don't know what I expected. Haymitch's fist flies at me with surprising speed and I fall from my chair. Barely registering the blossoming pain in my jaw I look back, ready to defend myself, in time to see Katniss plunging her knife onto the table. I almost think she's stabbed Haymitch's hand, but he merely leans back in his chair, gazing from her to me. He looks mildly surprised.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

Neither of us replies. I get up and my eyes land on a dish of fruit set on an ice bed. The stinging in my jaw has deepened, so I gather a handful of ice.

Haymitch interrupts. "No. Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

The suddenly helpful comment catches me off guard so I all say is, "That's against the rules."

"Only if they catch you," he replies. I struggle to understand if he's actually being sincere. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." He looks at Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

I stop myself from praising her hunting; she will want to speak for herself. She does even better than speak. Pulling the knife from the table, she throws it across the room where it hits the wall and stays. And I can't help the renewed hope that washes over me. With Katniss' exceptional hunting skills and Haymitch's sudden helpfulness, Katniss' victory is seeming more and more likely.

"Stand over here. Both of you," Haymitch commands, indicating the middle of the room. We stand beside each other as he circles us, scrutinises us. I don't even mind as he grips my upper arms between his fingers and presses to the point of pain. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

We both wait for him to go on. Apprehension is already breaking through my hope. Although he has started helping us, will he see this through to the end?

He seems to come to a decision. "All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

Well, at least we have a verbal guarantee. It's not worth much but it's all we've got. "Fine," I agree.

"So help us," Katniss says. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone—"

"One thing at a time," Haymitch cuts across her. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But—" Katniss starts immediately.

"No buts. Don't resist."

Those are his last words before he leaves us. Seconds later, the compartment is plunged into darkness. The ceiling lights turn on seamlessly. Katniss and I stand rooted, waiting for the tunnel to end. This tunnel leads directly into the heart of the Capitol. The proximity to our final destination reminds me of how far we are from District 12, but I can't let my thoughts go back there. Instead I only allow myself to feel relief and hope in light of Haymitch's promise.

It's a while before the darkness abruptly disappears. The train slows down, and then we're surrounded by light again. Both Katniss and I are drawn to the window, through which we catch our first glimpse of the Capitol. The glamour is undeniable — the buildings are impossibly tall and gleaming, the roads impeccably smooth — but the colours are garish, grating against each other. As people begin to point at the train, at us, Katniss leaves her spot by the window.

I stay. Despite Katniss' enquiries to Haymitch before, she doesn't seem to have thought ahead. It's not like I have much of a plan myself, but I stay for the same reason I agreed to Haymitch's order to co-operate with the stylists. If Katniss won't win the citizens of the Capitol over, I will have to, so I can convince them to help her. So I plaster a smile onto my face and wave until my wrist hurts. Once we stop at the train station, I see Katniss appraising me.

"Who knows?" I say with a shrug. "One of them may be rich." One of them may save your life in the Games.

She doesn't reply, just looks deeply disgusted. Her contempt isn't exactly misplaced: it's because of the Capitol that the Games exist in the first place. But it doesn't matter what Katniss thinks of me now. It's a small price to pay for her victory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her, I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events.**

Chapter 5

From the train station, we are taken to the Remake Centre. Effie leads us through the crowd of reporters and enthusiastic Capitol citizens and into a high-rise building, where Katniss and I part ways. Haymitch is nowhere to be seen, but his instructions echo in my mind. I must go along with everything my stylist wants. I mustn't resist.

As I'm led down a silver hallway by another Capitol attendant, I can't help wondering how things would be if Katniss wasn't my fellow tribute. Would I have any hope for my own prospects? Would I be able to think of returning home without a dull pain spreading through my chest? If Katniss hadn't volunteered, if Prim hadn't been chosen, it would be someone else from my District, very likely someone I know. Would I be prepared to kill her?

The thought sends a light shiver down my spine. I don't know the answers to these questions, and I don't want to know.

The attendant stops beside what seems to be a blank stretch of wall, until two panels slide open to reveal a room within. He gestures, and I enter. The door closes behind me.

I look around. The walls are a stark white, blank apart from two rows of buttons. There is a glossy table in the middle of the room, and a metal cart full of some sort of tools in one corner. I've never seen anything that looks so pristine. I, with my stained clothes and grimy nails, do not belong in here. No doubt they intend to fix that, make me presentable, until I glow and glisten like those appliances in the corner.

The door slides open again, and suddenly the rooms burst into colour. Three women come in, all tinted various shades of the rainbow.

"Ah, you're finally here!" one of them calls. "Hello, District 12!"

The first thing I notice are her tattoos — flowering vines that snake their way up her arms and neck. Her tightly curled hair is a dusty pink with streaks of glittery white, reminding me of the strawberry tart the bakery makes for the mayor's birthday every year. We generally can't afford strawberries, and it takes several months' savings to trade for some.

A pang hits my chest, and I force the thought of home out of my head.

"H-hello," I manage, a beat too late.

"Oh, bless!" another calls. "He's nervous!" She has midnight blue skin, dotted all over with diamonds that look like stars. Her hair is long and silvery, styled so it looks like lustrous moonbeams woven together. "I'm Celeste," she continues. "That's Fragaria," she points to the pink-toned woman, "and _that_ ," she gestures to the last woman, "is Zuri."

The woman in question beams at me. Her eyelashes have turquoise feathers attached to them, and her golden hair is sculpted into the intricate shape of a bird spreading its wings.

Celeste spreads her arms and leads me to the far corner of the room.

"No need to worry, darling," she says. "We're your prep team. Before you know it, we'll strip you of all that nasty dirt and dust and make you as presentable as possible! Are you ready?"

I nod wordlessly.

The other two women have headed straight to the other end of the room. One rummages amongst the appliances whilst the other presses a few buttons in succession. A section of the floor rises and splits to form a tub.

"In you go," Celeste says as the tub fills itself with foamy water. Trying to keep my mind empty of thoughts, I strip and step in.

The stylists crowd around me, exchanging notes amongst themselves.

"Not nearly as bad as last year's," Fragaria whispers loudly.

"Definitely needs an all-over," Zuri mutters, "maybe _twice_ over."

"We could try out that sheen lotion!" Fragaria suggests. "Give that dull skin a lift!"

"Let's go," says Celeste. She turns to me with an excited twinkle in her silver eyes. "We have a lot of work to do, don't we darling!"

What follows is an intensive session of removing every speck of dirt and anything that resembles dirt from my body. I get scrubbed and wiped down and scrubbed again, until it stings to even move. Then I finally get to put a robe on, and they sit me down on the table to cut my hair.

When the time comes to trim my nails, Fragaria looks at my scarred hands in horror. "Did they torture you?" she asks.

I wonder who she means by they. The Capitol is the one gearing up to do the torture. But instead of saying this, I briefly tell her about the bakery. Her eyes light up at the mention of the cakes and pastries, and I don't tell her that we could never afford to eat them ourselves.

I have to take my robe off again as they run a curved metal tool all over my body, which removes every strand of hair with sharp little zaps of electricity.

The longer I lie there, the more my mind wraps itself around the strange situation, around these garish, animated women beautifying me for death. I begin to exchange snippets of conversation with each of them, learning more about their lives. Their words intrigue me, almost making me forget where I am.

At one point, Celeste injects my arm with a clear liquid. I don't say anything, but look at her questioningly. "Slows body hair growth," she tells me, her nose wrinkling at the mere mention of body hair. "Very handy, don't you think?"

Just when I begin to wonder when this cleaning and prepping session will end, the door opens.

Another woman enters. She is short with a slight frame, and unlike the others, the alterations to her appearance are so subtle that they're easy to miss at a glance. Her reddish-orange hair is adorned with thin strands of gold, and her eyelids are covered in faint but intricate gold designs.

She exchanges a few words with the prep team, then dismisses them. They beam at me on the way out, and I smile back. Then my gaze falls on the woman.

"Hello," she says, holding out a hand. "You must be Peeta."

I take her hand and shake it. "Hello."

"I'm Portia. Your stylist." As she speaks, her eyes rake up and down my body, studying me. Then a distant look overtakes her face and we fall into silence for a moment. I try not to think about how exposed I am before her, but the tips of my ears are burning.

Her amber eyes turn back to mine. "I'm sorry about my team," she says, smiling slightly. "They tend to go a bit overboard. Here," she adds, picking up and handing me the robe. I slip it on instantly. "Let's talk."

She leads me into an adjoining room. It is furnished simply yet lavishly, with a thick carpet, a glistening table and plump chairs.

"Please, take a seat." I do as she says, and Portia settles across from me. It is then that I realise that I've never seen her before. Most of those involved in the Games are regular fixtures, seen time and time again over the years.

"How do you feel?" Portia asks.

"Fine," I answer automatically, although my skin still stings all over.

"Good," Portia replies. "Would you like some food? I myself can never function on an empty stomach…"

She seems to realise what she's said seconds after the words leave her mouth. Us tributes from the poorer Districts are well acquainted with hunger. A blush creeps over her skin and she ducks her head, focusing on a row of buttons on the table.

A panel slides open on the table, and two steaming dishes appear. Portia pushes one of the plates towards me. When she meets my gaze again, I smile to let her know it's all right. She sheepishly smiles back.

"So, let's talk about your ensemble for the opening ceremony, shall we?"

"Okay," I reply. The mound of rice surrounded by a rich stew holds no appeal for me at the moment, although Portia digs in.

After a few bites, she sets her spoon down and wipes her mouth. When she looks up at me, her eyes seem more alive somehow.

"How do you feel about fire?" she asks me.

I can't help but give a short laugh. Instead of replying, I just hold out my hands, which are covered in burn scars.

Portia raises her eyebrows. "So you're well acquainted. That's good, in a way."

I'm unsure where she's going with this, and the confusion must show on my face, because she smiles almost mischievously.

"Don't worry. My partner and I have a very… _memorable_ introduction planned out for you."

* * *

My heart thuds the entire time as my prep team zips me into a jet-black unitard and laces up my boots. Portia watches them with blazing eyes, explaining the science behind the costume to me in animated terms.

I nod along, pretending to listen, but all I can think about is the sting of fire, and how it has engulfed parts of my skin before. I've already gotten too close for comfort before, and I can't help but imagine that same feeling spreading all over my body. Hot, searing pain digging inside me…

As Zuri brushes some powder on my face and Celeste rubs gel into my hair, I try to pull myself together. At least we'll be memorable at the ceremony, even if we're flayed alive in the process.

Portia places a headpiece with red, orange and yellow strands onto my head. She stands back to examine me with a grin. "Let's go."

I can already feel sweat budding on my palms as we make our way to the lowest floor of the Remake Centre. My heart won't sit still, and my neck feels stiff. Even though Portia assures me that the headpiece is attached securely, I'm afraid it will topple over, as all my limbs seem to have gone rigid, making my movements disjointed.

As we make our way to where the chariots and horses are being prepared, I see Katniss in the far corner of the room. Tension breaks through her stony expression, echoing my own sentiments.

Portia and her partner Cinna help us into our chariot, which is attached to four black horses. They fiddle with our costumes for a while, making sure everything lies perfectly. Portia pokes me in the back, telling me to stand straight. Everything sounds a little tinny, as if I'm seeing it all through a glass tube.

Then, all of a sudden, Katniss and I are left alone.

"What do you think? About the fire?" she asks me immediately.

A tingle that feels suspiciously like fire rakes over my back. "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I offer.

"Deal," she mutters. She fixes her eyes ahead determinedly. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

That reminds me. "Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I should've known I couldn't count on him. The burning feeling in my back intensifies.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

A wild laugh escapes my lips, and Katniss joins in.

And then I can't hear anything else as the opening ceremony begins, and music reverberates all around us. The front doors fly open, giving us our first glimpse into the starry evening. The first chariot begins moving off towards the City Circle.

The crowds lining the street erupt into cheers. The District 1 tributes shimmer in sliver ensembles, looking luminescent in the dark evening.

The next chariot follows, and the one after that. The sounds grow tinny again, and I furiously swallow down the frenzy of my beating heart. The pounding music beats inside my head and before I manage to process any of it, the District 11 chariot is moving into position. I only see the little girl inside for a second, a stab of horror in my gut, before the chariot is rolling away. Cinna appears with a torch.

He says something I don't catch, but before I can say anything, my cape is on fire. I expect the stinging in my back to flare up, but instead it dulls, and fades. I feel only a slight tingling. Cinna lights our headdresses in the same way.

"It works," he says, looking pleased.

He leaves the chariot and we pull up to the door. I grip the edge of the chariot in one hand. I'm all right. We're all right. So far.

Moments before we take off, Cinna shouts something at us. The music drums in my ears.

"Hands! Your hands!" I hear faintly as Cinna shouts again.

"What's he saying?" Katniss asks. For the first time, we look directly at each other with our costumes alight. She looks radiant with the flames framing her face.

I swallow. "I think he said for us to hold hands," I reply, and take her hand in mine. One glance at Cinna's slowly retreating figure confirms that this is what he meant.

We enter the city. I keep expecting to feel the fire eating away at my skin, but my fear evaporates as the crowd's energy overtakes me. Shouts of awe ring out into the evening as they spot us. Sounds of alarm turn into gasps of admiration. I feel thousands of eyes turn towards us, soaking us in.

A glance at the large television screen shows creatures of fire, revelling in flames. Katniss' grip tightens as she lifts her other hand and acknowledges the crowd. Calls of District Twelve change into our names. Her hold reassures me, and my fear seems like a distant thing.

I can't help but think that this may well be the last time we are tied this closely.

Katniss blows the crowds a few kisses and flowers rain on us. As she throws a rose back, a chant of her name rises up above the music. _Katniss, Katniss, Katniss…_

She is definitely in their favour.

As the City Circle appears in sight, Katniss suddenly looks down at our intertwined fingers. She begins to release her grip.

"No, don't let go," I urge. "Please. I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," she says, and regains her hold.

By now, we are at the City Circle. At its head is President Snow's mansion. We stop in front of it, and the thudding music ends as the chariots come to a halt. The mansion is an ornate building, the tallest of those that ring the City Circle.

The President's opening address begins, but I can't get rid of the feeling that all eyes are still on us. Katniss is staring at the large screen overhead. I follow her gaze to see the two of us reigning onscreen. We're glowing brighter than ever in the growing darkness, while the shadows are eclipsing all the other tributes, and even the President himself. Even as his words echo out to the Capitol, we are the ones that hold the audience's rapt attention.

After President Snow finishes his customary speech, the national anthem plays. The chariots begin rolling again, and the trip back to the Training Centre is much shorter than the outgoing one.

I don't know what to do or where to look when we return. I don't have to think about it anyway, because the prep teams surround us the moment we're back. They are ecstatic at their success, at having made the meagre, ordinary tributes into showstoppers. The stylists join us, and Portia puts out the fires with a spray.

My shoulders droop in relief, and a sigh escapes my lips. It's over. It's over. For now, we're both alive and unscathed.

Katniss and I finally let go of each others' hands.

I knead my palm. "Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there."

"It didn't show. I'm sure no one noticed," she reassures me.

Probably because everyone was looking at her. Even though the flames are now gone, a trace of the light still lingers in my eyes. I remember how luminous Katniss' grey eyes looked in firelight, how her skin glowed warm and silken.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you," I tell her. "You should wear flames more often. They suit you," I add quietly. My stomach lurches a little. It's the furthest I've ever dared reach out to her.

Katniss surveys me for a moment. Her eyes are unreadable, like stone. Then, without a word, she reaches up and plants a kiss on my cheek.

Pain blooms as her lips meet my bruised skin. I don't know whether that was intentional. And I know it's stupid, but I don't mind. Whether she likes me or hates me, she'll have my help either way.

As the pain subsides, my skin tingles warmly where she touched me.


End file.
